


Coming Home Soon

by GENERAL_KENOBI22



Category: Days Gone (Video Game)
Genre: And This Game Deserved Far More Exposure Than It Actually Had, Deacon and Sarah are Hashtag Marriage Goals, Explicit Language, F/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Game(s), Potential Spoilers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22028194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GENERAL_KENOBI22/pseuds/GENERAL_KENOBI22
Summary: Two years. Two wholeyears. Of searching through hell and high water. Of thinking she was dead. Even still, some days he can't bring himself to believe that this is real. That he found her, and she's alive. But when he thinks about the alternative, when he thinks about all of this being taken away, he can't...he can'tbreathe.So he aims for levity because this is what he has: here and now."As in, you and me?" When Sarah nods, he lets loose a sound of disbelief. "Oh, no, no. That doesn't apply to outlaw bikers and their badass botanist wives. We can stay in bed all day."
Relationships: Deacon St. John/Sarah Whitaker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	Coming Home Soon

**Author's Note:**

> I have, like, a bajillion other fics that need to be finished, but 2019 is nearly over, and the lack of fic for this game is STAGGERING, especially considering that Deacon and Sarah just...love each other? So much ??!
> 
> I couldn't let the new year ring in without contributing something, so here is my small offering that hopefully will be continued, Lord and grad school willing. This jumps around a bit, time-wise, but follows the game's narrative for the most part.
> 
> Finally, as an unnecessary disclosure (to myself, really), I don't typically write using explicit language. But it's such a part of Deacon and how he speaks that eliminating it made the piece feel...not true to character? None of you probably care, but as an appeal to my conscience, I've included it as a means of maintaining character.
> 
> All of that said, I hope you enjoy this, and it immediately inspires you to post your own (un)finished Days Gone fic, too!

Sarah's dying. Boozer's bleeding out, O'Brien's bein' a huge asshole while the world around them turns to shit, and—

Well... _shit_.

Deacon doesn't have a fuckin' clue how to stop any of it.

—

The way she looks at him—before they set off for the community college, for the, uh, DNA sequencer thing—the total hesitation etched all over her face at the idea of having to touch him?

He's seen a lot of shit, but that? It nearly breaks him.

Not nearly as much, though, as the way her arms find their way around him—same placement, same amount of trust—as they did all those years ago.

—

On their ride back, the weather only gets worse the further up the mountain pass they go.

Sarah's arms go tight, just under his ribs. "Hey, Deacon!"

"Yeah?"

He follows the line of her arm to a pointed finger that's aimed at a small cabin up the road on their left.

He thinks he hears her clear her throat. "We should—we should stop for the night. Try to wait out this storm."

"I, uh—"

The thing is, they _should_ stop for the night. Visibility is shit, even his new tires aren't enough to keep traction on the slick road, and he's pretty sure his hands are only gripping the handlebars out of some kind of frostbite-induced rigor mortis, or some shit. The only saving grace is the prolonged heat from where Sarah is pressed up against his back, her hands nestled in between his thermal and his jacket.

But that's part of the problem.

Because he knows she has some kind of hang up, or-or reservations, or whatever, and he's trying to be understanding, to keep his distance. But he hasn't been able to get Weaver's dumbass comment out of his head. It's the end of the whole damn world as they know it, and he hasn't been able to stop staring at his wife's ass.

So, an abandoned cabin, with no one else around for miles, just the two of them? It's a...it's a real fuckin' problem, is what it is.

But he's not a monster. God, he would _never_ —he can do this. Desperate times, and all that bullshit. Besides, it's been, what? A little over two years? What's one more night?

"—Yeah, okay," he finally bellows over the cacophony of the wind and the bike as he drifts off the main path to head toward the cabin.

Maybe, if he's lucky, it'll be so cold, he won't have to worry about, uh, anything functioning normally anyway.

—

The heat from the blast makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but it's nothing compared to the way the tears—raw and equal parts rage and grief—burn at the corners of his eyes as he makes his way up to the Ark.

 _St. John, you asshole_ , he thinks as he sinks his boot knife into the neck of one of the guys that used to stand guard at the main gate—his hands now baptized in the blood of a fellow survivor, not a Freaker— _you don't get to have the girl, the camp, and the brother in arms._

—

They fall into an uneasy rhythm after the whole thing. Without Colonel Garrett and the Deschutes County Militia breathing down their necks, Lost Lake and Wizard Island reach a tentative alliance. And Deacon...

Well, Deacon somehow finds himself in charge of _both_ encampments.

But he's not thinking about that right now. Not when his arm wraps around something warm and firm as he sinks further into his mattress. Sarah stirs just as his thumb brushes, feather-light, over her hip bone. It takes a few moments to recognize his surroundings (he'd blame sleep-induced grogginess, but ever since Afghanistan, and well, two years in the shit, he can transition from sleep to action almost seamlessly), but then it hits him all at once.

Moving his shit out of Boozer's place, Addy and Rikki insisting he and Sarah move into Iron Mike's old place. Feeling really fuckin' uncomfortable with that until they discovered Iron Mike's mattress was like a dream compared to whatever bullshit they'd been sleeping on before. Living with, riding with, fooling around with, and enduring the shit with Sarah. His _wife_ , who is alive, not dead, and actively swatting at him.

"C'mon, Deek," she weakly protests, turning onto her side. Her voice is husky, thick with sleep, and it only serves to cause a twitch inside his boxer shorts. He does his best to ignore it and instead tightens his grip and pulls her back into him. He's powerless against the smile that breaks out across his face as he breathes in the crook of her neck, the scent of her floral-scented shampoo grounding him.

God, he's missed this. He's missed _her_.

"Good morning," he murmurs into her ear, which causes her to shiver. He can feel it travel the length of her body, and—well, he can't emphasize this enough—it's doing absolutely _nothing_ to help his boxer short situation. Still, he's got shit to do, so he presses a quick kiss to her pulse point, right below her jawline, just as he moves over to give her some space.

"Remind me again," Sarah demands (although she says it through a yawn, so y'know, it's not _that_ demanding), "why we have to leave this bed?"

He's about a second away from getting up and putting on some pants when she rolls over and nestles into him, her palms flat against his chest. Her hair's a mess, which makes him grin, so he brings a hand up to brush it out of her eyes. She's still half asleep, but the small, content smile on her face is enough to fill his chest with...something.

Two years. Two whole _years_. Of searching through hell and high water. Of thinking she was dead. Even still, some days he can't bring himself to believe that this is real. That he found her, and she's alive. But when he thinks about the alternative, when he thinks about all of this being taken away, he can't...he can't fuckin' _breathe_.

So he aims for levity because this is what he has: here and now.

"We? As in, you and me?" When she nods, he lets loose a sound of disbelief. "Oh, no, no. That doesn't apply to outlaw bikers and their badass botanist wives. We can stay in bed all day."

Her responding smile is reward enough. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," he assures her. "Because who would be brave enough to contradict the final word of the Witch of Wizard Island?"

"Oh, stop!" She playfully thwacks him against the chest, and he makes a show of cowering in pain before he grabs hold of her wrists and rolls them over, so she's on top of him.

She props herself up, her hands on his chest, while he salutes her. "Yes, ma'am."

She tries to reprimand him, but they both dissolve into laughter. "I'll have you know," she says instead once they sober, "that the _only_ reason I earned that moniker was because of you, sir."

Deacon laces his fingers behind his head, a smirk visible. "Interesting. How so?"

"Well, I have this strict policy where I _only_ sleep with guys who have my name tattooed on their neck," she tells him. His smile only gets wider, but his heart starts slamming in his chest. "One guy tried to get one after I explained my policy, but that just felt desperate, so..."

"Oh," Deacon scoffs, "totally desperate. No question. But, uh, this other guy. The one with the—"

"—the neck tattoo?"

"—right, the really suave and _incredibly_ handsome one with the neck tattoo. This, uh, Deacon, was it?"

Sarah snorts. "Well, I never actually mentioned his name, but yes."

"Yeah, so tell me: this Deacon guy? What'd he do to inspire such a specific policy? Y'know. If you don't mind me asking."

"Oh, nothing special. He was just very charming—" She pretends to think about it for a moment. "— and he really knew how to _ride_."

Deacon can't stop his grin (or himself, for that matter) as he props himself up on one elbow and drags Sarah down with his other hand to kiss her. His fingers sink into her hair as her tongue licks into his mouth, and while this isn't how he pictured his morning going, hell if he's gonna complain about it.

But for the first time since the world went to shit, they have time, and he doesn't want to rush this. So he flips them over, pins her wrists above her head, and makes an effort to slow their frantic rhythm. Sarah easily follows his lead, but then again, she was always a fast learner.

Then there's a knock on the door and a tentative, "Uh, Mr. St. John?"

Deacon wrenches himself away, chest heaving and breath haggard, just long enough to holler, "Go away!" in response before he turns his attention back to Sarah, who is giggling.

" _Deacon_ ," she whispers disapprovingly, but he notices her attitude changes entirely when he presses her back into the mattress and swallows any other complaints when his mouth meets hers again.

But the knocking persists. "Mr. St. John, there's a camp dispute, and—"

This time, he lets his forehead sink to Sarah's in defeat. Her whole body is vibrating now as she valiantly tries not to laugh. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me," he grumbles, and then she actually _does_ laugh. To the door, he finally yells, "Listen, I'm trying to ravish my wife—"

"Deacon!" Sarah thwacks him again, her face flush. He fixes her with a lascivious smile and a wink.

"—so if you could just—"

"It's urgent, Mr. St. John."

Deacon looks to Sarah for help, to get him out of this, but she's already looking at him with remorse. "Aw, no," he protests. "Sarah—"

"Go." She plants a pitying, but loving kiss to his forehead. "I'll be here when you get back."

He brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "Promise?"

She winces. "Shit! No, sorry, I told Addy I'd help her down at the clinic today. But I promise I'll make it up to you." She kisses him again. "You're a leader, Deek."

He rolls his eyes, but does as he's told, grumbling with each piece of clothing he has to put on. When he finally gets to the door, and then out into the hallway, she hears him say, "Listen—Hunter, is it? First of all, Hunter, enough with the 'Mr. St. John' crap. Call me Deacon. Second, there had better be a whole fucking horde at the main gate for you to disturb me like this, kid..."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Soldier's Eyes" by Jack Savoretti


End file.
